


Think of Me

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Sexual Content, Sharing Clothes, Undressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 07:20:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1419432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before going "fishing" for their widows, Aramis helps Porthos find the right outfit for courting - and gets distracted. (Coda fic for 1x08)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Think of Me

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of in response to that tumblr post floating around that the shirt Porthos is wearing in "The Challenge" is Aramis' shirt from earlier in the season. Also written in response to the prompt "fancy clothes", kind of.

“I think this one will suit. It has just enough lace to hint at femininity without being too overt for you. Still has that touch of masculinity,” Aramis says with a sage nod, and tugs the shirt down over Porthos’ head. Porthos examines himself in the mirror and makes a face, letting it crinkle up a bit in displeasure as he starts fiddling with the shirt sleeves. 

He shakes his head, peeling the shirt back off. “Too frilly.” 

“You’re so picky, my friend. I know best,” Aramis tuts, but obeys, folding his shirt back over the back of a chair and retrieving a new one, more sedated but puffier in the sleeves. “I’m an expert in these matters. And let me assure you, you must look your best if you want to fish for widows.”

“I have done this before,” Porthos mutters, but lifts his arms obediently for Aramis to slip the second shirt on, tucking it in decisively into his trousers, stepping back and smiling. 

“Hmm,” he hums, shakes his head, and then yanks the shirt off. Porthos laughs and Aramis grins back, smoothing his hands down his chest briefly, fingers tracing over the scar above his heart before stepping back, observing him with a critical eye. 

“You’ll think of something that fits,” Porthos says, and his smile is charming and crooked and entirely too endearing. Aramis beams back at him. 

“I know. I’m brilliant, after all,” he agrees as Porthos laughs.

Aramis smile turns fond as he thumbs through the different shirts, searching for the right one. Porthos stands, patient, if looking a bit chilled, and Aramis thinks that he wouldn’t mind spending the morning like this – doing away with the widows, at least for the morning, and just focusing on the way he stands there, expectant, head tilted slightly in quiet restlessness as Aramis takes his time. 

And then Aramis thinks to himself, well, they do have a little while before they have to make it to Mass. So he steps forward, tugging one last shirt over his head and stepping back to examine his work. He loves this shirt on Porthos, really, loves how simple and straightforward it is. It won’t do for seducing women, but it’s enough to make Aramis smile warmly. He loves the way it falls over Porthos’ shoulders and settles, as if made for him, the collar open and unadorned. 

He hums, appreciatively, and reaches out to fiddle with Porthos’ collar. Porthos rolls his eyes a little and smiles. 

“Well?”

“I think you look perfect,” Aramis says, ever the charmer, and then shoves Porthos back onto the bed and climbs on top of him. 

Porthos falls back with a grunt but arches up, meeting him halfway for a small kiss that Aramis quickly deepens, cupping his cheeks and stroking his thumb over the bottom half of the scar over his eye, whispering his name and making an appreciative whimpering sound when Porthos obediently lays his hands over him. 

Aramis loves this part of him – loves more about him than he cares to admit, cares to examine. When it’s like this, it’s easy to just pretend that the love he feels for him is that of a brother, of a friend, one he trusts completely and, hey, doesn’t mind having fun with. But there’s so much of Porthos that Aramis loves, if he allows himself to think of it.

He loves him all tied up in his finery – donning the blue cloak strapped across his chest, the fleur de lis painted across his shoulder like so many scars, lovingly treasured and displayed with pride. Aramis loves seeing that pride that he can’t disguise, would never disguise, the way he carries himself as if he is the king himself, proud and noble and determined. But Aramis loves the way those layers peel away, piece of by piece. He loves untethering him, stripping him down until he’s bare, dragging his nails down over his chest and tracing all the scars he helped heal, he helped shape into the loving caresses they are now. Aramis loves the way he looks in the morning, when he’s still snoring into the pillow and Aramis can hear the rumbling of his chest caught beneath his ear pressed there above his heart. He loves waking him up from sleep in nothing but thin trousers, grumbling about the morning sun and the sheer disgust of having to leave the bed – loves the way he always seems to change his mind and rolls to his side, tugging Aramis in close as if they could both banish the morning sun by the strange combination of sheer determination and immense laziness. 

He loves every part of him. Loves him serious and focused and frustrated, loves him smiling and laughing and taunting, loves him determined and lazy and motivated and those rare moments of uncertainty, the way he hesitates for half a second before he leans in and kisses Aramis, as if Aramis would ever not want to kiss him back. 

And he cups his face now and kisses him, deeply and gently, and rocks his hips pointedly against Porthos’ hips just to hear the sharp intake of breath beneath him as Porthos arches up – and it’s everything that Aramis could want, and more. 

Aramis loves the way he fights, the way he lives, the way he smiles so easily and lives so freely, even when he knows what weighs down on his back, as what weighs on all their backs – this thought that, today may be the last day. But Aramis loves him like this, too – under him and arching up and looking at him as if he is the only man in the world, simple and just a man. The white shirt clings to his shoulders and Aramis almost tugs it off before he thinks better of it, instead leaning down and biting at his lips until the kiss is sweet and gentle, warm and humming as Porthos shifts up and closer, hands – large and callused and yet gentle, almost a musician’s hands more than a warrior’s if not for Porthos’ general lack of precision – his hands touching down his back and along his sides, tracing along his ribs and along scars he knows are there, even if he can’t visibly see them. 

He strips himself of his clothes, but when Porthos goes to do the same, Aramis quickly shakes his head, instead tugging his belt off and undoing his trousers, letting them hang slack around his hips. He smoothes his hands down over his chest, feels the low, pleased rumble of Porthos’ moan and smiles, secretive and captive – because he knows that Porthos likes this, too. More man than musketeer, more man than warrior, and yet there’s still that fight that flickers happily in Porthos’ eyes as he meets his, and Aramis ducks his head to kiss him, shoving him back until he hits the bed and sprawls out, fingers digging deep into Aramis’ hips to make sure he falls with him.

The neck of the shirt is open, loose the way Aramis likes to see it – likes the way it settles over Porthos’ clavicle and brushes along the slope of his shoulders. Aramis smiles at him, slides his hands up and under, feels over Porthos’ chest, sees the shadows of his hands, rough and callused like Porthos’, underneath the thing, veiled white fabric, just barely covering him. Porthos shifts and settles, and the shirt falls down off one shoulder briefly and Aramis can’t help himself, ducking down to lick and bite over that warm shoulder, nuzzling against his neck and breathing out a soft, quiet laugh, delighting in feeling the answering chuckle from Porthos. 

“Fuck me,” Aramis breathes into his neck and feels Porthos nod, and then roll away from him, sprawling out onto his stomach as he reaches out towards the little drawer on the table beside Aramis’ bed. And Aramis watches him, expression warm, tracing his hand down his spine underneath the shirt, before curling his fingers tight into the fabric and pulling, pulling enough that Porthos has to come back to him, and he does, turning again with a laugh and kissing Aramis sloppily, as if he’s drowning. 

Aramis breathes out a laugh when Porthos pulls back, rolling his eyes and uncapping the little bottle of oil that Aramis keeps nearby – presumably for massaging sore muscles, should anyone ask, but in reality its most frequent use is for this. And Aramis watches, mesmerized, as he always does, as Porthos pours a small amount and slicks his fingers up, his movements precise and deliberate. Aramis straddles his hips, spreading his legs enough when Porthos slides his hand down over him and presses one finger into him slowly, biting at his lip as he moves – and Aramis knows how impatient he can be, how quickly he wants to move, and how much he holds himself back, moving slowly for his sake, because he knows Aramis likes it. Aramis sighs happily, twisting his hands tight into his shirt and holding firm to it, a little wet now with sweat and clinging to him in all the right places. And Aramis watches him, mouth slack with pleasure as Porthos pumps slick fingers in and out of him, movements slow but precise, struggling to keep the pace, struggling not to push up harder into him, or let impatience win out so he can thrust up into him instead. 

“We’ll have to hurry, probably,” he whispers, even as he bites back a small, pleased whine and writhes down onto Porthos’ fingers, ignoring the way Porthos grins at him, flushed and happy. “We have to make it to Mass…” 

“Hm,” Porthos grunts, only half-listening, but seems happy enough to speed his pace up – he always was so much more impatient than Aramis, but Aramis delights in it, shuddering with pleasure when Porthos fingers him open, hands firm and steady, deliberate and stroking into him with that firm sweetness, as if he’s seeking to undo Aramis before he can even begin. 

“Come on,” Aramis whines out and then pushes up, curling his arms around his neck and keeping him close, kissing him sloppily, mumbling another quiet, “Come on.”

Which Porthos only responds to with a nod, pulling back from him and letting Aramis climb on top of him. They move together, as they always do, comfortable with one another enough that it only takes a little negotiation before Aramis is comfortable in Porthos’ lap and sinking down onto his cock with a delighted little sigh, Porthos’ hands cupping his hips to help guide him down. 

It’s good now, riding Porthos’ cock, his legs bent up a little uncomfortable, perhaps, but it doesn’t really matter to Aramis if it means he gets to grip tight to Porthos’ shirt and jerk himself down and down onto his cock, pushing him in deeper into himself, until he’s thick and full of him, watching Porthos with his mouth wide in a sloppy grin, holding tight to his shirt and imagining riding him like this outside, during one of the garrison’s excursions, Porthos rocking up to meet him on the ground, the rich white color of the shirt dirtying as they lie out on the grass, smeared with dirt and sweat, pocked with little holes from bark of the tree roots or small sticks collecting against the forest ground. He imagines Porthos in one of the fancy mansions, wooing a widow, a new mistress, all smiles and soft eyes, his hands disappearing in the excessive black skirts of the widows, his tunic slung low, open across his chest in a deep vee, hinting at the hair across his chest, just barely covering his scars. 

He bounces a little, bends his knees and plants his hands on his chest, touching at the fabric of his shirt, bouncing on his cock and grinning at him, slow and almost mean if only to hear the way Porthos’ breath hitches in a low whine before it blends into a moan, hands cupping his hips to keep him moving, fast now in comparison to the decadent slowness of his fingers preparing him for this. 

In these moments, he knows he can be selfish – that his love for Porthos is selfish, possessive. That as he rides him like this, when he holds him inside and holds him down ,that he wants to keep him, wants to have him, wants him to be his – as much as Porthos can belong to anyone, because Porthos is his own man, free and untamable. And he would never wish to own Porthos or keep him tethered, but in these moments he lets himself pretend that there’s more for them than secret meetings and hidden moments. He grips the shirt tightly, ducks his head as he rocks against his hips, presses Porthos’ cock deep into him, and kisses him, sloppy, messy, and obscene, humming out a soft purr when Porthos kisses him back with just the right lack of urgency but complacent desire. 

It’s a selfish kind of desire, that Porthos should love him and want him and cling to him just as tightly, and Aramis loves to feel the way his strong arms hold him, as if he is delicate and not used to being the one to hold, instead. But he arches and he rocks, and he hums out gently into the kiss when Porthos obeys the silent order, arms curled tight around him, hands pressed to his back to keep him close. He wants Porthos to think of him – to imagine his face when he’s with his widows, imagine all the things he’ll do for him once he’s done getting the money he needs for the tournament entry fee. The mass will begin soon, and he knows they shouldn’t linger, but he wants to – wants Porthos to need him, in turn. It isn’t Aramis’ fault, really – it’s just the nature of his being, to fall a little in love with every person he spends a night with. Porthos is no different, except, perhaps, the love compounded along with their friendship, a mutual kind of loyalty and protectiveness. 

Aramis wants Porthos desperate – desperate for him, and he moves the way Porthos likes it, knowing they don’t have much time yet and he still needs to dress Porthos properly for seducing. He moves faster, moving to meet Porthos’ trusts, taking it well. He arches his neck because he knows that Porthos likes to bite – because he loves it when Porthos bites. 

“Don’t leave marks this time, love,” he whispers, though, and regrets that he can’t be marked. But Porthos nips gently, nibbling at his neck and licking along his jaw, his teeth scrape across his earlobe just once, enough to make Aramis shiver. He arches his back because he knows Porthos likes the way his chest pushes out to meet his, and he tightens his hold on his shirt, rocking his hips down more desperately now, his own cock thick between them as he rocks and rolls against his hips and stomach, rutting against him for the sake of the friction. He moans out, his name sincere and desperate on his lips, and Porthos tightens his hold around him, moaning in his ear in response – because he loves the way Aramis says his name, and Aramis knows it. 

It’s quick once they start like this, desperate for each other, and Aramis moves the way he knows Porthos likes, meeting him and taking him, his syllables broken and choked off with the force of Porthos’ trusts, as he starts rocking into him without restraint, enough that they’re both shuddering from it, and Aramis needs to cling to him simply because Porthos is so _forceful_ when he doesn’t hold back. And he doesn’t want it to end, never wants it to end, wishes he could make it last, that they could spend the entire day like this, wrapped up in each other. But duty calls, so to speak, and they do need the money, and those widows won’t stay widows forever. So he rocks against him, takes him the way he always does, hard enough that he’ll feel him long after they’ve parted. And he lets his legs drop wide and he takes him down deep, grinding, and fumbles a little to touch himself and stroke himself off in time with Porthos’ thrusts.

But he’s not so far gone that he can’t assist, and a moment later, Porthos’ hand is joining his on his cock, stroking him past the point of slowing, and they both move sharply, bodies flooding with pleasure. And Aramis stops moving for a moment, just feeling Porthos, letting the full weight of his orgasm hit him – liking it better that way ,when he feels loose and floating and needed, when he feels warm and protected in Porthos’ arms. 

And he knows there’s something to this that Porthos likes, too, thrusting up into him a few moments more, liking the way that Aramis goes all pliable and limp, panting and smiling at him and touching at his hair and tracing over his scars, and holding tight to his shirt, smiling at him as Porthos thrusts up into him harder, meeting no resistance, only a low hum of happiness. He watches Porthos’ face when he comes, touches at the scar on his face and watches his brows draw together and his mouth go slack, and he feels warm all over and then inside, feels Porthos all around him. 

He watches at Porthos goes boneless, and hums out gently, rocking against him a few more times until he lets the softening cock slide out of him, and he rolls over onto his side, tugging so that Porthos rolls a little on top of him, boneless and pliant, one arm slung across his waist. The shirt is clinging now to his back and his shoulder, sticky with their sweat and the cooling wash of come pressed between them. Slowly, Aramis curls his legs through with Porthos’, stroking his hands slowly over his side and hip, up into his hair. He pets over Porthos’ body, feels the crisp warmth of the shirt and the steadier warmth of his skin. He wraps up in Porthos and hums low and amused at Porthos’ sleepy grunt, slow and deep – and he shifts a little to avoid Aramis’ elbow and settles in near him, breathing against the shade of his neck, pressing a few slow, stray kisses there. Aramis breathes out, smiling. 

They stay like that, half-dozing, but mostly just cuddled up in each other, Aramis stroking his hand over Porthos’ chest, sliding up underneath his shirt to touch at his scars.

“So,” he says quietly, after a long moment of just lying there with him, turning his head to nuzzle into his shoulder leisurely. “I have this tournament coming up… I’d love to have a token of yours to hold close to my heart.”

Porthos snorts, loudly, a sharp _ha_ , and he turns his head to grin at him. “So you can sell it, you mean. Am I one of your widows now?”

“Well,” Aramis says with a low, pleased hum. “Not to be overly confident, but I _did_ just blow your mind – among other things. Hypothetically, if you were in mourning, you’d have forgotten all about your spouse by now.” 

“Ha,” Porthos snorts again. Aramis laughs, too, and kisses him, gently, nibbling on his bottom lip and staying close, waiting until Porthos melts beside him before pulling back with a wicked grin. 

“Now then, love,” he says, and pats Porthos on the chest, regretfully rolling away from him and the smooth, warm fabric of the shirt. “I really must dress you. You look utterly debauched.” 

“And whose fault is that?” Porthos mutters, rolling his eyes, but looking too amused to be actually frustrated. “Dunno, maybe the debauched look will help.”

“No, no, you have to look prim and upstanding for your widow,” Aramis shakes his head, and pulls the very pliant and very sleepy Porthos from bed. “Come now, my friend. Mass will start soon.” 

“Praise the lord,” Porthos mutters, not necessarily sarcastically but with enough dryness that Aramis very cheerfully overlooks the sacrilege in favor of crawling into Porthos’ lap, cupping his jaw, and kissing him sloppily – a decision that Porthos happily supports, returning the kiss with a small grin. 

“You’re distracting me,” Aramis sighs and pulls himself from Porthos’ lap, and pulls him the rest of the way out of bed, manhandling him until he’s in front of the mirror again. Aramis resumes surveying Porthos’ small collection of shirts, trying to determine which would be suitable. If the one he’s wearing now was suitable enough before, it’s utterly unacceptable now. Although Aramis himself quite likes the way it clings to him even now as Porthos adjusts himself, fixing his trousers and looking lovely and completely mushed and decadent. 

Porthos rolls his eyes and shrugs, tugging the shirt off over his head. Aramis regrets to see it go, but he steps forward, taking the shirt from him and ducking his head to kiss the scar over his heart, delighting in the low, pleased rumble Porthos makes at that. 

Aramis steps back enough to dress himself, surveying Porthos’ collection of clothes, trying to decide which would highlight his friend best and help him in his fishing. 

“You’re taking this rather seriously,” Porthos says conversationally, looking at him with a small smile. 

“It’s important,” Aramis says with a shrug. He sighs. “You may be a lost cause, my friend. I really don’t – you should just wear my shirt.”

Before Porthos can protest, Aramis tugs his shirt off from where it’s been discarded on the floor and pulls it down hard over Porthos’ head before he can try to shift away. He settles it down low over his chest, touching at the small hint of hair there before buttoning it up easily, adjusting the collar as Porthos rolls his eyes. 

“There. Very dashing,” Aramis says with a wide smile. 

“You’re just saying that because it’s yours.”

“Well, yes,” Aramis laughs, shrugging, and smoothes his hands over his shoulders, touching him gently and adjusting the shirt so it falls just right, making sure the collar sits right against his neck. He smiles warmly as he looks up at Porthos, tracing his fingers up his neck and along his jaw. “You’ll smell like me, too. Women can’t resist it.” 

“Can’t resist how you smell?” Porthos asks, and makes a face, but laughs a second later. Aramis laughs, too, curling his arms around his neck and leaning up, kissing him gently. Porthos kisses him back with a soft sound, touch gentle. 

“Can’t resist anything about me,” Aramis amends, and bumps his nose against Porthos’ briefly in a spontaneous wave of affection. His expression softens. “Just don’t think of me too much when you’re with your widow.” 

“Ha,” Porthos laughs and kisses him again, which isn’t an answer, but Aramis will take it. He kisses him, running his hands down over him, hoping that, when undressing his widow, he’ll keep the shirt on for a moment longer than necessary, smell what lingers of Aramis, and know that he’s thinking of him, too. 

He pulls back with a decisive nod and finishes dressing the both of them. He slides Porthos into his coat and buttons it up for him, making sure the collar folds over perfectly with the scaled motif of his coat collar, and grins when Porthos rolls his eyes again.

“There. Perfect.” He steps back and admires him, smiling warmly. “You’ll have to fight to keep them all off you, my friend.”

“Not if you’re around,” Porthos shoots back, grinning.

Aramis touches a hand to his heart. “Ah,” he sighs, and grins, stupid and happy, at him. “You charmer, you. Look, you’re already on your way to wooing hearts.” 

“Yeah,” Porthos hums out, curling his arms around Aramis’ waist and pulling him in for another kiss. Aramis goes willingly, gripping tightly to his shoulders and savoring this moment – as he does all their moments together – wanting it to last, wishing he could make it last. 

They make it to the church, though, just as the bells start ringing.


End file.
